


Awkward encounter and embarrassment aplenty

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkwardness, Embarrassment, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Morning After, POV Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock is a Brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:09:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21703510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: The equivalent of running into your lover’s parents the morning after having spent the night. Mycroft has an awkward encounter with a Baker Street resident he wasn’t expecting to meet.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 15
Kudos: 87





	Awkward encounter and embarrassment aplenty

Mycroft steps out of the bedroom, still buttoning his shirt, the soreness of last nights activities making themselves known in a delightfully painful way that will make him think about his brother long after he has left the flat. 

He isn’t in a hurry, it’s still early and the car won’t pick him up for another hour. So he has time for some coffee and a small breakfast while Sherlock still lounges in bed, more asleep than awake when Mycroft tried to kiss him good morning before leaving the bedroom, in search of whatever edible there is in the flat.  
Since John Watson moved in, there usually is something to eat in the cupboards these days. Unlike when Sherlock lived alone and nothing but mouldy leftovers and teabags was on offer. 

He opens the refrigerator to take a look and immediately regrets this decision when he spots a bowl with what suspiciously looks like a pair of fingers in a liquified mess in a jar on the top shelf. A wave of nausea makes itself known as he quickly closes the door again to get rid of the sight.

As the door closes, the sense of nausea disappears only to be replaced by startled surprise as his eyes look straight into the very familiar form of an elderly woman in a purple dress and a white apron, carrying the morning paper as well as a steaming cup of tea on a tray like some trustworthy servant, despite her claims that she isn’t a housekeeper, simply the landlady. 

It’s only with outmost restraint that he manages not to flinch at the sight of her.

Because despite careful planning and making sure that not only Dr Watson is safely away for the next two days, with no risk of coming home and interrupting Mycroft’s carefully arranged night spent at Baker Street, he was also under the impression that Mrs Hudson was spending the weekend with her sister. 

And yet, here she is, looking at him with eyebrows raised in curiosity and he can feel himself beginning to blush and surprisingly incapable of uttering a simple word.

He deals with the most intricate political problems imaginable but can’t come up with a single plausible explanation for being here at this hour, rummaging through his brother’s refrigerator, dressed the way he is. Thank God he at least bothered to dress at all, a shirt, a waistcoat and a pair of trousers are still within the respectable line of clothing. Even if, in his case, it is a very rare sight indeed. 

It’s all the small details of him not looking like he usually does when visiting Sherlock, and doing something as mundane as looking for something to eat, that gives him away. She has never seen him do anything other than come here snooping under the pretence of bringing Sherlock something he needs help with or check up on him, always impeccably dressed, seldom out of his coat, never out of his suit and nine times out of ten with umbrella and suitcase close by. 

This must be like watching a hippo run. You have heard that it can happen, but who has really seen it?

“God morning, Mr Holmes.” 

She is the first one to speak as she moves towards him and he can feel panic render him motionless as if facing a dangerous beast who’s charging in his direction.

“....God morning, Mrs Hudson,” he finally manages while wishing he had opted to be anywhere else but here. Never before has he felt as underdressed as in this moment, despite wearing more layers than she does. 

“Sherlock still in bed, is he?” she says as she passes him to put the morning paper down on the kitchen table. This is clearly a ritual and nothing she only does when fancy strikes. Knowing how Sherlock lives under the impression that certain things just magically happens, Mycroft isn’t surprised. His little brother has probably never collected the morning paper himself in his life. 

Mycroft doesn’t know how to answer her question because should he be able to answer if his brother is still asleep without giving away too much? 

“Erhm...” he begins and feels embarrassed about how lost he seems. Where are his usual manners? How can a dodgy old lady bring him to such utter speechlessness? He is lucky no one else is here to witness this. His reputation as the cold ruthless government official would be in shatters.

She doesn’t wait for him to regain his composure but simply natters on. 

“When he doesn’t have cases, he is quite the late sleeper. Sometimes he doesn’t rise until noon,” she says as she carefully puts the cup down next to the paper.

When Mycroft is still unable to come up with a single plausible response to this, she turns her head to look at him.

“But you would know that of course.”

He actually feels himself stiffen from her words, his brain frantically searching for how to begin explaining himself. He should feign ignorance but doesn’t know if he can pull it off properly at this early hour and faced with a scenario he isn’t even remotely prepared for. 

What does she mean exactly? 

That Mycroft knows Sherlock is a late sleeper because he has shared his little brother’s bed enough times to have experienced this? That notion sends spikes of actual dread down his spine. Has she figured out their secret?

“I beg you pardon...?” he finally mumbles, and this earns him a look he can’t decipher. It’s like his usual ability to read other people has gone out the window the moment he faced her.

She looks at him as if expecting him to catch up, but when he doesn’t she seems to shrug and turn her attention back on arranging things on the table.

“Well, you grew up with him,” she says. “I can just imagine what he was like as a child. Must have been spoilt rotten.”

His body is fighting against the wish to buckle at the knees with relief.

“....yes. Yes, he was quite the handful...” he manages and there is actually a tone of his usual voice making a comeback now when he realises that he has allowed himself to run away with his imagination in a most unforgiving way. She clearly knows nothing.

His brain has already started working on an explanation for his presence here and calmness seeps through him when he regains his composure. How silly of him to fear this obviously clueless woman to have figured anything out. They have been doing this for years and no one has ever caught on to their secrets, so why would she? 

But just to prove Mycroft wrong when he thinks the situation is now manageable, and to utterly complicate things even further, the door to the bedroom is suddenly thrown wide open and Sherlock steps out, not a thread on his body, just like when Mycroft left him, sleeping in bed.

“Is it too much to ask to have a quiet morning without you two yapping away like two mother hens, making it impossible to get some sleep?” his insolent little brother hisses, running a hand through his ruffled curls, unfaced by the picture he is presenting. 

Mycroft feels his mouth go completely dry at the sight of Sherlock’s beautiful body, despite having both seen and actually touched it less than twenty minutes ago. 

His eyes swivels to Mrs Hudson who is also looking at her naked tenant, but she seems more displeased than actually enjoying the sight, or God forbid, putting two and two together.

But she doesn’t say anything so maybe this is how Sherlock usually conducts his morning rituals, naked and on full display for everyone to ogle at?

That idea doesn’t sit well with Mycroft. 

He doesn’t like others getting a look at what he considers to be his. 

Especially not John Watson, a man whose presence he has been forced to accept on account of Sherlock’s eagerness to have him as his friend, flatmate and constant companion, despite him making it more difficult for Mycroft and Sherlock to meet up like they did last night. 

Mycroft barely tolerates the man, but has reluctantly allowed Sherlock to keep him, the way a parent allows a child to keep a kitten they have found in the woods. You know that it’s dirty and probably full of fleas, but the imploring look in the eyes of the person you love, how could anyone resist saying anything but yes?

In an effort to regain control he straightens his posture and puts on a stern expression.

“Sherlock Holmes, put some clothes on this very minute!” he barks, at least trying to sound like this is a very unexpected turn of events and very embarrassing for him as an older brother to witness. 

Naturally Sherlock ignores him and has his full focus on the teacup laid out for him on the table.

“Where is the biscuit that usually comes with that?” he says to Mrs Hudson while pointing at the cup, clearly displeased, and she sighs as if facing an unruly little boy.

In a way that isn’t too far from the truth.

“I came home late last night, I haven’t been to the shops yet. We are out of biscuits. Or rather, _I_ am, I might add. _You_ never had any to begin with.”

Sherlock gives her a glare before he sweeps up the cup as well as the paper and turns his back on both her and Mycroft, marching straight back into his bedroom. 

Seconds later the door is closed once more, less forcefully than it was opened, but still sending the message out, loud and clear, that his highness is currently enjoying his breakfast alone and wishes to do so in peace and quiet.

Mycroft is still reeling from the whole experience and wonders if it’s only him who feels like he has just faced a force of nature storming through the kitchen, here one instant, gone the next, leaving spectators in its wake with their mouths wide open. Is this perhaps how Mrs Hudson spends every morning when her rude tenant decides to grace her with an appearance at this hour? Or perhaps it’s John who gets to witness this more often?

“Oh, don’t worry Mr Holmes. I have seen it all before,” he can hear her say in the background, his eyes still glued to the closed bedroom door.

“I’m sure you have,” he mumbles before clearing his throat and facing her, polite features back in place again. “Nevertheless, apologies for my brother’s appalling behaviour. I’ll be having a word with him about manners.” 

She has already started walking out of the room, apparently done with what she came for.

Without turning her head, she addresses him with some final words.

“You do that Mr Holmes. But try to keep the noises to a minimum this time. These walls are paper thin and I hardly got any sleep last night. “

Then she turns to give him a cheeky look over her shoulder.

“But I’m sure you can figure out a way to gag that little brother of yours. Although it was difficult to say who was enjoying himself the most last night. You’re quite loud as well, when you want to be.”

And with those parting words she leaves, and Mycroft feels the blush he successfully managed to supress earlier, now spreading across his features with full force. 

He can’t remember the last time he felt this mortified. 

Who knew that Sherlock’s landlady out of all people was the one who could cause such a reaction?

Next time they decide to do this, they’re spending the night at his place instead, he thinks before heading towards the closed bedroom door and the brother who is waiting for him on the other side.


End file.
